


Bedtime

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2013 [13]
Category: Glee
Genre: Childhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2013. A snapshot of Blaine's early relationship with his dad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime

Bill Anderson had made a study out of the extra bedroom across the hall from Blaine’s own room. It was classic Dad: warm woods and rich colors of burgundy and forest green. When Blaine was young, the room hung with the smell of Daddy’s pipe smoke, and Blaine all his life would associate that smell with a certain kind of comfort.

After supper, after his bath, Mama would send Blaine in to say goodnight. If the door was closed, he knew Daddy would be sitting at the desk on his big computer or writing on his papers. Little Blaine would just quietly, so quietly poke his head into the door until Daddy noticed him. Then he would run over to fling his arms around him and kiss him goodnight.

But it was better if the door was open, because then Daddy would be sitting in his “smoking chair,” the pipe smoke circling his head like Santa’s in the Christmas poem, a book of poetry on his lap. Then Blaine could climb up into the chair with him. “Read me a poem, Daddy?”

“From my book, or from your special book, a cuisle?”

“Is that your red book?”

“What do you think?” Daddy held a dark green book up to show Blaine.

“I don’t know that book. Will I like it?”

“Let’s try some and see.” And then he read of a “Tyger, tyger, burning bright” and asked “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“Who is Thee, Daddy?”

“Little one, thee is just a way to say you—except you say it to someone you love.”

“Like cushla?”

“Well, except a cuisle is like saying my darling. Thee is just you. Like when we pray, we call God Thee.”

“Because we love Him?”

“And He loves you.”

Then all was right in Little Blaine’s world and he snuggled down into his Daddy’s embrace, resting his ear over Daddy’s chest to hear the words rumbling underneath as he read some more. He would wake up in his own bed those nights, lulled to sleep by Daddy’s voice and warm arms.

Some nights, he wanted Daddy to read him poems from his own Silver Pennies book, poems about fairies and elves and heroes bold. Daddy wanted Blaine to learn some of those poems for himself. “Let’s try ‘The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky,’ okay?”

“I don’t know if I can remember it all.”

“But you do it so well—and next month at Poppy’s birthday, you’ll have your own party piece and not just have to be Cooper’s backup dancer.”

“And you’ll be proud of me?”

“I’ll be extra proud of you.”

Blaine scrambled down then and stood in front of Daddy, his hands clasped behind him:

“The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.

He bites it, all away…

“No, wait, that’s wrong.” He started over and got through it this time, hurrying through the first verse to get to his favorite part, when he could act like Cookie Monster:

“…And bakes a crispy new moon that

greedy … North … Wind … eats … again!”

He yelled the last part, tossing his damp curls and stomping around. “And I’m gonna have a real cookie at the party, and eat it all up! Right, Daddy?”

Daddy laughed and laughed at that, until Mama had to come in. “Honestly, Bill. He has to get up for school tomorrow. Come on, Cookie Monster. It’s bed and prayers for you,” she said.

On nights like that, when he needed more help to get sleepy, after a kiss and a squeeze to Daddy’s neck, Little Blaine would run across the hall and launch himself into bed. “Mama, can you leave the door open?”

“For a bit, love. Now, can you get under the blankets?” And then it was Mama’s soft hands and her quiet voice helping him with his prayers and singing him a lullaby that brought him to sleep. But the light spilling from Daddy’s office was his nightlight, creating a world where he was safe and loved.

**Author's Note:**

> a cuisle=my pulse (Irish Gaelic)


End file.
